


Return Fare

by therudestflower



Series: The Commuter AU [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Attempted closure, Gen, Indiana, Past Child Abuse, Snowstorms, The Commuter AU, Trauma, You Can't Go Home Again, father and son relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-08-27 22:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16710859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therudestflower/pseuds/therudestflower
Summary: He’d legally been Chris’s son for three weeks. He’d been eighteen for two weeks, and had owned his father’s home and all it’s contents the entire time. The knowledge of the ownership was a weight on his mind, making it hard to sleep and eat and of course, Chris noticed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little ditty from the Commuter AU verse. This will make most sense if you read Seven Fourteen Northbound or Theory of Multiplicity, or both. 
> 
> But if you don't want to here it is: This takes place in a verse where all our faves are human, and Isaac is from a small town in Indiana, and following his father's death Isaac ran away to Derek, who was a small city in Chicagoland where he met the Argents, and was ultimately adopted by Chris.

  
The drive to Hodge took four hours. It was a strangely warm February in the Midwest, and they saw at most patches of snow on the drive back to Hodge. He’d legally been Chris’s son for three weeks. He’d been eighteen for two weeks, and had owned his father’s home and all it’s contents the entire time. The knowledge of the ownership was a weight on his mind, making it hard to sleep and eat and of course Chris noticed.

 

Isaac had dropped out of high school already, and it was too early to start at community college like he promised. There wasn’t much to do with Allison in France, and Erica still in school and Boyd at college. Mostly he just went on runs and made way too many muffins. Napped when he was too tired from waking up every night to go on. But Chris still made him wake up at a “respectable hour” and have some semblance of routine. Even when he woke the entire apartment up screaming in the middle of the night.

 

“What would you like to do with the house?” Chris asked over breakfast.

 

Isaac shrugged, “Sell it I guess? If anyone would want to buy it.” He had no idea what the house was worth, but he’d sell it for five dollars if it would get it off his hands. He knew that his aunt, Aileen, had been paying Pritchard Mayer to keep an eye on the house, so it couldn’t be in that bad of shape.

 

“Would you like to start working on that now?” Chris asked, “I’m between accounts, we can start work on it right away.” Chris said if they went in and got the house cleaned up a bit, he could hire someone to sell it and Isaac could use the money for college.

 

The mere thought of someone else going inside his house—the thought of Chris going inside his house—broke so many rules that Isaac hesitated to even go there. But his dad was dead, and so were all the rules and he didn’t want the house to be his for another day.

So they were driving to Hodge to check out the house. Chris suggested getting a U-Haul so they could take some items home, but Isaac vigorously shook him off and insisted that he didn’t want anything in the house.

 

The drive was easy, all fields and gas stations. Isaac had no memory of the car ride he must have taken with Aileen to Peoria that must have taken the same routes. He didn’t remember if Aunt Aileen went into the house or encouraged him to take things with him.

 

He knew that when he went to Derek’s all he had was a duffle bag that wasn’t his. He had the clothes that he rarely wore anymore, his radio, and the little empty jar of lotion that he had managed to hide for ten years. He didn’t have photos because there weren’t photos, and he was pretty sure that Chris thought that Isaac had simply forgotten to bring mementos of his family with him to Chicago. But there was nothing in that house that he wanted.

 

The only reason he was going with Chris was to keep him from going into the basement.

 

On the drive, they listened to Buzz some. It got to be too much at one point to listen to the radio personality he shared with his brother, and without warning, he turned it off. After the next gas stop, Chris turned on some Opera that Isaac subtly covered his left ear during. Chris must have noticed because he turned it off and they drove in silence.

 

They got on a route that Isaac recognized, the road between Hodge and the cemetery. He reached into the back of Chris’s car and unbuckled his seatbelt and put his hoodie on.

 

“Please put that back on,” Chris said, keeping his eyes on the road.

 

Isaac rebuckled his seatbelt. “We’re almost here,” he said.

 

“GPS says we’re half an hour away,” Chris said, questioning.

 

“That feels like almost,” Isaac said, nearly turning around as he tracked a tree that he remembered seeing countless times that had since been cut in half by lightening, the trunk blackened and twisted. “It’s nothing from here, just Yale then Hodge. We won’t have anywhere to stop.”

 

“That’s fine,” Chris said, “How are you feeling?”

 

“I’m fine,” Isaac said, “I’m fine.”

 

Being in Hodge was like being in a nightmare. It looked like a small, almost picturesque town, but all Isaac saw was threat.

 

They drove down the main street, past the General Store where Isaac stole truffle candy with Matt Daehler, past the combination Post Office and Library, past the daycare, past the cobbler that Isaac’s father always remarked was surely making no money at all. Past the record store that had been shuttered since Isaac was born. The Hale factory was just barely visible past a few miles of fields, but Hodge did a good job of pretending to be a town in an of itself, even though nearly everyone who lived in or near it worked at the factory that watched the town from afar.

 

Isaac never thought he’d come back, and he found himself shrinking away from the doors in case he really was in a nightmare, and something was going to scream the door off the hinges. Chris kept driving.

 

“Do you want to go to the house, or the motel first?”

 

“The house,” Isaac decided. Chris turned off the main street and took the turns without Isaac telling him what to do.

 

The house was two miles from the main street, which counted as in town, even though the closest store was the Casey’s a mile away. Growing up he had some pride in living in town. For some reason, he thought it meant that he was more sophisticated than his peers. He could walk to the Casey’s and buy hard candy with the change he found in his dad’s car, while to his classmates trip to Casey’s was a rare adventure. His house was in a residential area where the houses were clustered close together like it was the suburbs, with small lawns and unlit streets.

 

Before he was ready, they were in front of the house.

 

“Is this it?” Chris asked.

 

It was it.

 

It was a brick house with an American flag still stalwartly waving in the front yard. The lawn was covered in white frost. There was no car in the driveway.

 

Isaac was struck by the realization that he was late coming home.

 

By over a year.

 

His father was dead.

 

His—his new father was in the car next to him.

 

Isaac didn’t unbuckle his seatbelt.

 

Chris didn’t either. He didn’t turn off the engine.

 

“What would you like to do,” Chris asked.

 

“I can go in,” Isaac insisted, but he didn’t move.

 

Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. The air in the car got tight and the doors pressed in and he felt alone alone he was alone again and he wouldn’t survive this time and—

 

“Hey!” a voice said. A hand was on his back then, and Isaac realized he was leaning forward, his head inches from the glove compartment. He was wheezing. “We’re leaving, okay?”

 

The voice was Chris, the hand was Chris. Isaac felt the car move, felt it turn underneath him and when he looked up they were passing Mr. and Mrs. Gomers house. Fuck. He was home and he knew who lived in every house they passed.

 

“Where are we going?” he asked, not quite trusting his voice. Chris was driving, but his hand was still on his back.

 

“The motel, or home,” he said, “Up to you.”

 

“I’m fine,” Isaac said. His chest still hurt, but he couldn’t hide from the house forever, “We can go back.” The last thing he wanted to do was go back, but if they didn’t he would never go back and he would have no control.

 

Chris turned left and drove around the block. “We do not have to do this,” he said, enunciating clearly, “I can hire someone to go through the house, or we can wait a few months or a year to handle it.”

 

“I’ll never feel good about this,” Isaac said, “But I don’t—I don’t want some stranger to be the first one in the door.”

 

They went around the block one more time.

 

Then two.

 

He still had a key to the house on his keyring.

 

“Okay,” Chris said, “we can go in whenever you’re ready.”

 

They drove a while.

 

Then they were inside.

 

It smelled the same.

 

Burned rice and dirt.

 

Isaac looked over and saw Chris and was surprised to see him. What was he doing here? This wasn’t the part of his life that Chris was part of.

 

“I feel like I’m dreaming,” Isaac confessed. Everything felt upside down. He reached over and ran his hand over the banister of the stairs, and was surprised to feel the wood grain under his hand.

 

“Do you want me to help you with that?” Chris asked.

 

“Don’t pinch me,” Isaac said seriously.

 

“I would not pinch you,” Chris said just as seriously, “Would you like to go outside?”

 

“Outside isn’t better,” Isaac said absentmindedly, and he wandered into the living room.

 

The house was clean.

 

Someone had cleaned the house.

 

There was no crud on the floor, someone had fucking scrubbed the floors, and under some kind of suspicion Isaac lifted a couch cushion and found that there were no coins or crumbs. Someone had vacuumed the damn couch.

 

It wasn’t his aunt. He didn’t think it was Pritchard Mayer. It didn’t help things at all to know someone else had been in the house, and he didn’t know who.

 

He didn’t want to go into the kitchen, but he was pretty sure someone had cleaned up the glass and done the dishes. He managed to walk in, Chris close at his heels, confirming his suspicions. It was clean, not gleaming or anything, but there were no dishes in the sink and even the mold on the refrigerator face was gone.

 

“Someone cleaned,” Isaac said, his voice shakier than he wanted it. Someone else was in this house, someone he didn’t know and they could have gone anywhere in the house without him knowing it. What if they had gone in his room or the base—

 

Isaac frantically looked forwards the basement door and found that he was too late. Chris was stopped in front of it. He reached up and lightly brushed up against the chain lock affixed to the door. Cold fear flooded Isaac’s veins. He’d never forgotten about that lock. It became redundant during the last few years, more of a symbol than anything else. He didn’t want Chris to see that. He wanted to grab him and drag him out of the house and go back to pretending that he didn’t exist before two years ago.

 

There were no signs around the house saying, “Someone was locked in a chest freezer in this house,” and cleaned up with no broken glass or doors hanging off hinges, it looked almost normal.

 

Almost.

 

Chris turned toward him, his face was totally blank. Isaac hoped that his own face was just as blank.

 

“This is the basement?” Chris asked.

 

“Yeah,” Isaac said, his voice just on this side of brash, daring Chris to say more. “We don’t have to go down there.”

 

Chris dropped his hand. “Then we won’t.”

 

If Isaac wasn’t mistaken, his voice sounded a little rough. Isaac didn’t trust his own voice.

  

Then they were upstairs.

 

He felt steadier somehow, some of the panic that had been licking at his brain had abated and he was resigned to the fact that this house was still standing, and Isaac was inside of it with Chris. His mode that could handle things had slid into control, and his hands were no longer shaking. He was pretty sure if Creek came up the stairs, Isaac would just look at him. Maybe ask how he came back to life.

 

He didn’t remember if they did anything downstairs before going upstairs. His father’s bedroom was on the first floor, the second floor was just his and Cam’s room and the collection room.

 

He looked in the collection room first. The glass cases full of artifacts from the Civil War that rivaled the museum in Nashville they visited when Isaac was eleven. Half of his memories of his father were of him hunched over the computer in the kitchen, swearing at an eBay listing and drinking. Cam used to make excuses to get into the kitchen to watch for signs that he was losing the bid. If he lost—

 

There wasn’t much they could do if he lost except hide.

 

Isaac cleared his throat. “This is worth something.” He didn’t walk in the room. He wasn’t allowed.

 

Chris stayed in the doorway too. “Looks that way.”

 

“We could sell it on eBay,” Isaac said, risking sticking his head in the room, taking in the rows of buttons and buckets. The replica guns were in a locked case in the corner of the room. “You know how to sell guns, right?” he joked.

 

Chris nodded, “I do. We could take all this home, or I could hire someone to handle it.”

 

“Someone like Bennett?”

 

“Yes, someone on my team,” Chris said.

 

Isaac thought of the glass cases taking over their living room, or having those guns in his view while he ate cereal. He couldn’t stand the idea of knowing those guns were there while he slept again.

 

Chris’s guns were different somehow. They were in a safe, and despite Chris’s initial threat, he never threatened Isaac again. One threat weighed on him much less than his father’s nonchalant mentions “those rifles upstairs work, you know.”

 

He didn’t want any of it in their apartment.

 

“Do you think,” Isaac cleared his throat, “Do you think someone could sell them, but not have to come here?”

 

Chris nodded, “I could put them in a storage facility, and they could work out of it.”

 

“Would that be expensive?”

 

“I have a feeling these are worth far more than it would cost.”

 

Isaac agreed, “My dad spent a lot of money on them. I think that one,” he said gesturing to his father’s favorite rifle, “cost over a thousand dollars.”

 

Chris stepped back from the room and looked Isaac over, “You once told me that you brought ketchup sandwiches to school because there wasn’t enough food in the house.”

 

What the fuck did that have to do with anything. “There wasn’t,” Isaac said defensively. “What does that matter?”

 

“Yet your father spent all this money on these items,” Chris said, his voice even.

 

“We already know he didn’t care about me,” Isaac snapped, “You don’t have to point it out.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Chris apologized, “That was unnecessary.”

 

Chris apologized a lot.

 

It was weird.

 

“Sorry,” Isaac mumbled.

 

He turned away from the collection room. He could feel the guns behind him as he walked across the hall to his room. The door was open, and he couldn’t remember if he’d left it that way or not.

 

His room was the same, and being in it was the least disorienting part of being in the house. Even his bed was still made. His room hadn’t always felt small. It was long and narrow and if he stood in the center and held out his arms and stretched, he wasn’t far off from touching both walls. He never noticed that before.

 

Camden’s bed was at the end of the room, made with military tight corners. They’d always shared a room, with Camden’s bed and dresser at one and Isaac’s at the other. Camden loved to remind him that he was eight years older and he was here first so don’t touch his fucking stuff. Even after Camden left, he avoided his side of the room except on bad nights.

 

It was smaller than his room at Chris’, and he’d shared it with another person for ten years.

 

“This was my room,” he said, unnecessarily.

 

“I see,” Chris said. “Is there anything here you would like to collect?”

 

Isaac walked into the room and opened his closet. His hockey bag fell to the floor with an overloud thud. A rotting smell radiated out of the back of the closet, and Isaac felt his face heat as he realized what it was.

 

He must have stashed an orange or something in there, two years ago.

 

God, he didn’t even want to look at the bag of food he had stashed in the back of his closet, further back than his father could find when he’d get drunk and trash his room. He didn’t want Chris to see. He didn’t want Chris to know.

 

He’d gotten away with just telling Chris that his father beat him. That wasn’t just, that was a big fucking deal. Chris didn’t ask for details, not even during these past few weeks when Isaac woke up screaming. The closest he got was when Chris sat down with him and a notebook and asked him about his medical history.

 

Isaac’s hackles raised. “Why?” he asked.

 

“If you ever have a medical emergency and can’t make your own decisions I need to know what has happened to you.”

 

“You need to ask me about every time my dad broke my arm?” Isaac asked derisively.

 

“Was it multiple times?” Chris asked, his voice even.

 

“Same arm too,” Isaac said.

 

“Is that—“ Chris started then cut himself off, “You have a surgical scar on your right elbow.”

 

“He did that too,” Isaac said. Even though it was his fault. “But that was a shattered elbow, not my arm.”

 

Chris just nodded. “Did anyone—was there any DCFS involvement out of that?”

 

Isaac snorted. “He fed me a story on the way to the hospital. I followed it to the letter. They transferred me to a hospital in Indianapolis, and I think they suspected something because I had—“ Isaac stopped himself. He wasn’t going to describe the marks they found on his body in Indianapolis. Even if it mattered—which it didn’t—it wasn’t enough to get more than a few extra questions from a nurse. Nothing Isaac couldn’t lie his way through, even at fourteen.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Isaac concluded. “Shattered elbow, broken arm, and I’m lactose intolerant. Is that enough?”

 

Chris looked grim, but he nodded. “We will do this another time.”

 

“Awesome, we’re going to talk more about how my dad was a sociopath another time,” Isaac had said, “I can’t wait.”

 

He didn’t want this to be that time. He didn’t want to tell Chris more, he didn’t want to explain why there was a rotting bag full of food he stole from the school cafeteria in the back of his closet.

 

For his part, Chris made a face at the smell then covered it quickly. “A mouse may have died back there,” he said.

 

Relief washed over Isaac. “Yeah,” he said, glad to have an explanation. “You can hire someone to take care of that right?”

 

He couldn’t believe he was asking Chris to hire someone to get rid of his food bag, but he didn’t want to take it out and look at the evidence of how weak he was. Not in front of Chris. He just wanted his hockey skates.

 

He dragged the bag out of the closet then shut the door quickly. There were clothes in there that he did not want. Hoodies and thermals with rough seams and Rural King tags. He just wanted his skates and to pretend that closet didn’t exist anymore. Isaac sat down on the ground and opened the bag. That brought out a whole different smell, a hockey uniform that hadn’t been washed in two years. He retrieved his skates and closed the bag quickly.

 

His skates were top of the line, an oddity that his father invested in. He was proud that Isaac played an aggressive sport, practically patted him on the back every time he was kicked out of a game. The blades may have to be replaced, or sharpened at the very least, but they were better than the ones Derek bought him and Isaac wanted them.

 

“I want these,” Isaac said.

 

“You should take them, then,” Chris said.

 

The smell in the room was overwhelming. Isaac grabbed his skates and stood up. He looked around, looking for anything that he would want because he wasn’t sure he could ever come in here again. He wasn’t sure that he could walk into this house ever again.

 

He had his radio and his empty jar of lotion. There was nothing else that came from this house that he needed. The sun was setting outside, and Isaac realized he didn’t know if the electric was on in this house. He didn’t want to stay long enough to figure it out.

 

“Can we go?” he asked.

 

Chris carefully put a hand on his shoulder. “Yes,” he said, “Of course.”


	2. Chapter 2

The motel they stayed at was twenty minutes outside of town, on the way to the graveyard. Isaac’d seen it thousands of times before, but had obviously never stayed in it. By his count there were ten rooms, and the lobby was locked with a phone number on the window. Chris took out his phone and called the number. Ten minutes later the owner pulled up with a 64 oz reusable soda cup that Isaac knew came from the Casey’s. She jumped out of her mini van and waved to them. Isaac waved back.

 

He didn’t recognize her. He didn’t even know who she was.

 

“I’m Mary,” she said, somewhat breathlessly, “Happy to see you two. We’ll get you checked in right quick.” She unlocked the lobby door and Chris and Isaac followed her into the small windowed room.

 

“Alright,” she said, “Two queens, far away from other guests?”

 

Chris blinked. “Yes,” he said, “That would be preferred.”

 

She nodded. “I can read people. I see things. I get it.”

 

Chris nodded. “And two keys, please.”

 

Mary nodded and grinned, looking from Chris to Isaac. When she landed on Isaac she furrowed her brow and tilted her head. “You from here honey?” she asked.

 

Isaac didn’t recognize her. He didn’t. This wasn’t fair. “If I was from here, I wouldn’t be staying here,” he said.

 

Mary shook her head. “No, I never forget a face. You’re from here.”

 

Isaac paused. “I haven’t lived here in years,” he finally said.

 

Then Mary gasped, “Oh,” she said, “You’re Creek Lahey’s boy.”

 

Creek Lahey’s boy.

 

It had been almost two years since someone called him that.

 

“Oh sweetheart,” she said, “My daughter was on your daddy’s team, six years ago. I used to see you at meets all the time, following after your daddy. I’m so sorry sweetheart.”

 

Isaac didn’t know what to do. He looked desperately to Chris.

 

“The keys,” Chris interrupted, before she can go on. “We would like two keys.”

 

“Who is this then?” Mary said, “Are you a friend of the family?”

 

Isaac wanted to say “He’s my dad,” with every ounce of hard fuck you he could muster. He hated that this woman thought that Creek Lahey is his father when he has Chris Argent, who is better in every way. He was a good person. And he wanted to be Isaac’s dad.

 

But Hodge was a small town, and word would travel. It was bad enough that people would know now that Creek Lahey’s boy was in town, he wasn’t—

 

He wasn’t ready.

 

Instead he shot Chris another desperate look, and Chris didn’t even look in his direction before saying, “I am,” Chris said, “We would like two keys.”

 

Mary sighed gently and handed over two actual keys. “Room three,” she said. “Call me any time, that number on the door is my cell and I’m here if you need anything.”

 

“Thank you,” Chris said, saving him from having to speak. “I’m sure we will be fine.”

 

Isaac had been to plenty of run down hotels before, on his family’s road trips before his mom died. This one was nice enough. There were bed spreads with inexplicable fake tribal patterns on them, and a desk with a phone on it. Isaac dropped his backpack and skates on the ground and lay down on the bed further from the door, letting his boots hang off the side. He knew Chris wanted the bed closer to the door.

 

“I wanted to remind you,” Chris said, “That even though we have this hotel room, we can leave any time you like. We do no have to stay here.”

 

“I got the skates,” Isaac said, thinking of Chris’ stoic face when he saw the chain lock on the basement door, “I don’t ever need to go to that house again.”

 

Chris nodded. Isaac didn’t see it because his eyes we closed, but he knew that Chris nodded. “You don’t have to,” he said, “If you are able to, we will stay until tomorrow and I will meet with Pritchard Mayer to discuss what is going on with the house, and find a real estate agent to handle the sale. Would you still like to sell?”

 

“Someone has to clean it out first,” Isaac says. He knew Chris could hire someone, and part of Isaac would rather set the house on fire than let more people inside. At the same time, he’d rather set the house on fire than go back himself.

 

“We can hire someone,” Chris said.

 

“Why did we even come?” Isaac snapped, his eyes still closed.

 

“You wanted to come with me,” Chris gently reminded him. “I hope it did not provide harm to be in the house.”

 

Isaac shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out from my nightmares tonight.”

 

* * *

 

 

The diner was closed. The sign on the door said, “Until further notice,” which Isaac was pretty sure meant forever.

 

“Is there anywhere else to eat in town?” Chris asked as they walked back to the car.

 

Isaac got in the passenger side and waited until Chris was back in the car before he trailed off, “There’s a bar…”

 

“That will not do. We aren’t too far from Indianapolis, are we? Perhaps we—”

 

“We’re an hour away,” Isaac cut him off. “If we drive an hour away, I’m not going to be able to drive back.”

 

Chris lowered his brows in concern. “Isaac, if you feel that way—”

 

“I’m fine,” he insisted. He could do this. He could meet with Pritchard Mayer and do whatever else Chris thought needed doing. He was eighteen. He was in control of himself. “I just…we could go to the general store and get cereal or,” a stupid idea comes to him, “Or we could uh, get a pizza from Casey’s?”

 

“The gas station we passed on the way to the house?”

 

The night before Chris served filet mignon and garlic-shallot mashed potatoes with braised asparagus and that was just a random Tuesday night. For breakfast he made almond crusted French toast. And it was still a random Wednesday morning. He didn’t want pizza from a gas station mart.

 

Except Isaac kind of did.

 

“We used to get it all the time,” he said, defensiveness creeping into his voice, “It’s actually good pizza, and it’s not expensive.”

 

God he was such an idiot. Chris could buy the Casey’s if he wanted to, he was probably a millionaire. He didn’t care that the pizza cost half as much as the ones from the place they ordered from in Briarwood. He was probably disgusted with Isaac for suggesting getting food from a gas station. It was bad enough that he saw the house Isaac came from—small and dark with insidious chain locks and evidence that his own father didn’t give a shit about him. He was waiting for Chris to give him a good look and inform him that he was leaving Isaac in Hodge, and he could just deal with his life on his own because Chris had been his father for three weeks and that was long enough and now he saw how fucked up Isaac was and that he was a hick loser with—

 

“Isaac,” Chris’s hand was on his shoulder. He looked around and found they hadn’t pulled away from the diner, and Chris was looking at him intently. “I have no problem with getting a pizza from that place.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Isaac said, “We shouldn’t. It’s terrible. It’s awful food and you won’t like it.”

 

“You like it, yes?” Chris said. He took his hand off Isaac’s shoulder and pulled out of his parking place. “Then I’m sure I will too.”

 

When they got to Casey’s Isaac started to get out of the car but he got a good look at who was at the front counter and slammed the door shut. Chris followed suit.

 

“What’s wrong,” he said quietly.

 

Isaac slouched down in his seat. He pointed to the window in front of the car which framed Matt Daehler, slouched with his elbows on the counter reading a magazine.

 

“I know him,” he said.

 

“And you wouldn’t like to go say hi?” Chris asked.

 

“I’m sorry,” Isaac said.

 

“I can move the car,” Chris offered, “And I can go in without you. Or we could find somewhere else.”

 

“There’s nowhere else,” Isaac said. Chris started the car and moved to a parking place out of sight of the Casey’s windows. “Thank you,” he said sheepishly.

 

Chris turned off the car. “I’ll get the pizza then we’ll go back to the hotel, unless you would like to go home.”

 

“I can handle it,” Isaac snapped, “Just get the pizza.”

 

“I’m on your side,” Chris reminded him mildly, so Isaac felt like shit until Chris reappeared ten minutes later with a large cheese pizza, a box of cereal, some milk, and a bottle of Lactaid.

 

“It’s good our hotel as a mini fridge,” Chris said, “since I assume a breakfast option will not open up by morning.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Isaac said again.

 

“Isaac,” Chris said, “You do not have to apologize for where you grew up.”

 

* * *

 

 

He dreamed of the freezer.

 

Because of course he fucking did.

 

In the dream he was inside and he was gasping for air, helplessly fingering at the air holes even though touching them cut off the precious little air that came in. His legs were cramping painfully and he was heaving the little air he could get in shallow gasps. He desperately clawed at the lid of the freezer but it did nothing but make his fingers sting and grow tacky with blood. It stunk of sweat and fear and Isaac screwed his eyes shut against the fact that he was going to die this time. His dad was going to never let him out and he was going to suffocate.

 

The fucked up thing was that the dream wasn’t even exaggerated or twisted in any way, it was exactly what fucking happened and he still woke up screaming.

 

Chris was crouched over him. He had a look on his face that Isaac hadn’t seen before.

 

He looked afraid.

 

The thin sheets were twisted around his arm and were pulled over his chest, and Chris quickly detangled the sheets and pulled them off him. He pushed Chris away and stood, reaching out against the walls for the freezer, expecting to hit his head. He looked down at his hands, expecting blood and found nothing except bitten nails. His t-shirt clung to his chest and he belatedly realized he was covered in a cold sweat, and when he tried to wipe his forehead, his sweaty hands make it worse. He looked around the room, expecting to see his father looking at him with distain but instead found an over bright motel room, and Chris looking at him with concern.

 

“I’m sorry,” Isaac gasped out, “I’m sorry. I woke you up.”

 

Chris took a deep breath and sat across from him on his own bed. “You never have to apologize for this. Sit down and take a drink of water.”

 

There was magically a glass of water on the table between their beds, and Isaac’s hand shook as he reached for it. They sat in silence while Isaac slowly sipped at the water. He waited, hoping Chris would say something so he didn’t have to. So he didn’t have to explain.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?’ Chris finally asked.

 

Which was the opposite of what Isaac wanted. “What? No. I don’t,” Isaac said. “What time is it?”

 

The clock between their beds blinked 12:00, which was too early. Chris checked his watch. “Three thirty six,” he said. “Too early to stay awake.”

 

“I don’t want to go back to sleep,” Isaac said. He didn’t even want to lie down because he was always lying down in the freezer, staring up, tears falling into his ears. He blinked the thoughts away, forced the images back to the back of his mind.

 

Chris nodded. “Take a shower then, and we can watch TV.”

 

“Are you saying I stink?” Isaac said.

 

“I’m saying,” Chris ignored the bait, “That you will feel better with a reset, and a shower may help.”

 

He took a shower and fought not to think of anything while he did. He got dressed in the bathroom and quietly closed the door behind him. He walked out into the motel room and immediately knew Chris hadn’t heard him come out.

 

Chris was sitting in the same spot Isaac had left him, but his head was hanging low and his hands were in fists on the back on his neck. He was taking deep, labored breaths.

  
Isaac knew what freaking out looked like.

  
“Chris,” he said quietly.

 

With a jolt, Chris sat up and dropped his hands to his side. “Isaac,” he said, his voice gruff. His breathing was immediately under control, and all his focus was on him. “Would you like to watch television?”

 

“Are you okay?” Isaac asked. He didn’t know if he had ever asked Chris that before. He never had to.

 

Chris nodded tightly. “I’m fine,” he said, “I’m fine. I think I will take a shower as well,” he said.

 

Isaac started to say something else, something like “I know you were freaking out just there but I don’t know why,” but Chris stood and disappeared into the bathroom before he had a chance.

 

The water ran, and it ran for a long time. Isaac almost got through an entire episode of Psych before Chris came out, wet hair matted to his forehead, wearing the same grey t-shirt and pajama pants he and gone into the bathroom with.

 

He looked more composed than he had going in. He sat down on his bed. “Is this that show you and Allison are always quoting?” he asked.

 

“It’s good,” Isaac said, “There’s another one on in a minute.”

 

“One more then we’ll try sleeping?”

 

“One more,” Isaac agreed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains victim blaming, and discussion of the freezer

Chris didn’t know how, but they went back to sleep. He knew he dreamed because he woke up in a cold sweat, grasping at his sheets, but thankfully it was not enough to wake Isaac. He quietly sat up in bed and found it was six AM, too early to wake up Isaac, especially given they weren’t meeting Mayer until eleven, and he had been up for a few hours in the middle of the night.

 

Waking up to his child screaming as though they feared for their life was enough to put Chris on edge. He slipped up earlier in the night, allowing Isaac to see him when he had lost composure. He couldn’t afford to let that happen again.

 

He reached for the glass Isaac had been drinking out of and down the rest of the water, germs be damned. He considered looking on his phone for somewhere nearby with breakfast so he wasn’t simply feeding his child cereal with milk—despite his child being lactose intolerant. He was fucking up left and right on this trip. But he decided to stay in the room in case Isaac woke again. It wouldn’t do for him to wake up alone.

 

The nightmares started the night of the adoption.

 

Allison flew home for it. They picked her up from the airport then drove to the courthouse. Isaac refused to wear a button up shirt, despite the formality, and instead wore a sweater Allison had given him for Christmas. For his part, Chris wore a button up shirt but no tie. He couldn’t stand the feeling of restriction on his neck, so he couldn’t expect Isaac to wear one. Allison was by far the most dressed up, in a formal dress with a blazer she had bought in France, and after changing in a courthouse bathroom she raised her eyebrows at them and said, “It’s not _my_ adoption day, but seriously you couldn’t have tried harder?”

 

Isaac rolled his eyes and responded, “Some of us don’t have to try hard to look good,” and Allison flipped him off and Chris made a noise of protest and said “We are in a courthouse you must contain yourselves,” and the kids sheepishly apologized and not for the first time they felt like a family, even before it became legal.

 

That night they went to bed at one after watching movies, only to be woken up two hours later to Isaac screaming. Chris went for the gun locked in his nightstand and kept it at his side as he walked carefully to Isaac’s bedroom. He expected to find his son half dead from the way he was screaming, but instead found him tossing around his bed, fighting an invisible offender.

 

Every night since had proceeded the same way. Isaac would try to stay up later and later, thinking Chris didn’t notice, but he eventually went to sleep and woke up hours later screaming. He always refused to talk about what he dreamed, and Chris didn’t feel he could push him.

 

About a week in, the dreams started for Chris as well.

 

Sitting in the dark of the hotel room, he felt foolish—no _reckless_ —for bringing Isaac to Hodge. Part of him thought that it may provide closure, that it may help Isaac to see that his house was just a house, as Chris did when he went back after his father moved into a nursing home. But Isaac was not Chris. He should have known that. He shouldn’t have brought him here. He should have insisted on Isaac staying at home, and that Chris could handle the house on his own. He should have been a much better father.

 

Despite his best efforts to be quiet as he got dressed and began a stretching routine, Isaac stirred. Chris froze, ready for screaming, but instead Isaac rubbed his eyes and squinted at Chris in the dark.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Stretching,” Chris answered.

 

“That’s weird,” Isaac said. He sat up and turned on the light between their beds. “What time is it?” he asked.

 

“Six thirty-two,” Chris answered, glancing at his watch. “You can sleep longer.”

 

Isaac groaned as he sat up. “No I can’t,” he said, “I’m up.”

 

Chris laid out their options—they could read or watch television until it was time to meet with Mayer, or they could go into town to the real estate office—which Google promised existed despite Isaac’s doubts—and see about hiring the realtor to sell the Lahey house. Isaac chose the realtor.

 

“Whatever gets me out of here faster,” he said.

 

They ate breakfast and as they ate snow began to fall, lightly at first, then growing heavier with snowfall. Chris was glad they had packed their boots in the back of their car, even though Isaac refused to wear his.

 

The drive to the realtor was short, she was in an unassuming office on the west side of town. When Isaac saw it he said, “Oh, I guess it does exist.”

 

“Even in a small town,” Chris said, “There are places that can be overlooked.”

 

Isaac glanced at him. “Are you from a small town?” he asked.

 

“No,” Chris said, “I’m not.”

 

“Where are you from?”

 

“Pennsylvania,” Chris answered. He supposed he owed his son this much. “But that was a long time ago.”

 

“Right, because you’re old now,” Isaac teased.

 

The internet told him that Sybil Crawley was the only realtor in town, and he was almost surprised when he found that the door to her office was open, and she was sitting quietly at a desk with her name on it. She looked up as they walked in.

 

“Oh,” she said quietly, “I heard about this.”

 

“What did you hear?” Isaac demanded.

 

She cleared her throat. “I heard Creek Lahey’s son was in town, straightening out the house. I was hoping you would come see me.”

 

“Isaac,” Chris corrected, not gently, “His name is Isaac.”

 

Sybil nodded. “Isaac. Of course. I’m Sybil Crawley, I’m the best realtor in town. Only realtor. If you’re here about that house, I’d be happy to help. Coach Lahey has done so much for Hodge.”

 

Chris offered his hand. “Chris Argent,” he said, hiding his distaste.

 

“I heard that too,” Sybil said, smiling quietly but not taking his hand. Chris had a feeling it was more out of social awkwardness than disrespect. He dropped his hand. “Friend of the family?” she asked.

 

“Yes,” Chris said. He didn’t expect that Isaac was ready to tell his town that he had an adoptive father, not when it was evident that his father had some sort of place of prestige in this town. He didn’t expect that, but he did expect the way word spread that they were in town.

 

Sybil waited for more, and Chris didn’t give it to her. “Okay,” she said. “Who owns the house right now?”

 

“I do,” Isaac said, “I don’t want it.”

 

Sybil nodded, even though she couldn’t possibly understand. “That’s no problem,” she said, “We can get it on the market, see who is interested and get it off your hands.”

 

“No one wants to move here though,” Isaac said, “This town sucks and no one has any money.”

 

Sybil frowned. “I disagree. I’ve sold three homes in the last year.”

 

Chris wasn’t a realtor, but that number seemed low.

 

“Wow,” Isaac said sarcastically, “three? If I’d known that…”

 

“Isaac,” Chris murmured.

 

Isaac rolled his eyes. “Whatever,” he said, “If you think you can get rid of it, please do it.”

 

“I can,” Sybil said, some measure of confidence in her meek voice. Chris couldn’t picture this woman negotiating by any measure, but he figured he couldn’t hire someone much further from the house. And Isaac had said once he didn’t care how much the house sold for. Chris didn’t either.

 

“Have you already cleaned out the house?” she asked, “Gotten your valuables, all that?”

 

“We’re working on it,” Chris said, “We can let you know when the house is ready.”

 

“I’d like to see it,” she said, “I haven’t been inside, and it will help me get a sense of what the house is worth.”

 

Chris looked to Isaac who was looking at Sybil blankly. He knew Isaac did not want her in the house, but he would have to allow her in if she was going to sell the house.

 

“When the house is clean,” Chris said definitively. “For now, know it is a three bedroom with a fireplace and a basement, an electric stove and central air.” He had no idea if any of that was what determined the worth of a house, but he hoped it was enough to get Sybil to stand down.

 

“That could be said of most houses in this town,” Sybil said.

 

“Then price it as you would most houses in this town,” Chris said.

 

“No,” Isaac said, “Price is cheaper. Like, ten dollars for all I care.”

 

Sybil frowned. “You want to get as much out of a house as you can. I know you’re young, and $50,000 seems like a lot of money, but if you respect the worth of your home—“

 

“My home is worthless,” Isaac said coolly. “The only thing that’s worth anything to me is getting rid of it.”

 

Sybil looked like she was going to object, but Chris shook his head minutely to her, and thankfully she picked up on the signal. The customer was always right, weren’t they?

 

“I’ll look into what it sold for last time it was on the market,” Sybil said, “I’ll get back to you if you could leave a number?”

 

Chris reached into his wallet and handed her a card. It was only as they were leaving that he realized that a card touting him as an arms dealer may stir up town gossip even further. He mentioned this to Isaac as they drove to Mayer’s house, and Isaac just laughed.

 

“I would love for this stupid town to know that I run with an arms dealer now,” he said.

 

“Well,” Chris said, “As long as you are in favor.”

 

* * *

 

 

Mayer lived next door to the Lahey house. Chris was expecting an elderly man, one with the same charm as Sybil and Mary, but he was wrong on both counts.

 

The snow was falling heavily, and it has accumulated several inches in the past few hours. The drive to Isaac’s old neighborhood was treacherous and Chris’s wheels slid once. He was getting nervous about driving home that afternoon.

 

As they walked up to Mayer’s home, Isaac looked at his house warily. “We’re not going in,” Chris reminded him.

 

“I know,” Isaac said.

 

They rang the doorbell and after a minute or two, Mayer arrived at the door. He was maybe five years older than Chris, with grey hair and a tanned lined face that spoke to working outdoors in all seasons. Mayer gave Isaac a look that Chris couldn’t read, then wordlessly stepped back in the doorway, inviting them in.

 

Chris looked to Isaac for an indication that he was willing to enter this house, because if not they were having this conversation in the doorway. But Isaac stepped forward, looking back at Chris as he walked into the house.

 

“Pritchard Mayer,” Mayer said, unnecessarily, “We spoke on the phone.” He offered Chris a hand which Chris shook.

 

“Chris Argent,” Chris said, “Good to meet you.”

 

Mayer nodded. “I gotta tell you. I’ll be glad to not have to look after this house anymore.”

 

“Weren’t you getting paid?” Isaac asked. “My aunt said she gave you $30 a month.”

 

Mayer whistled. “Not enough. Not for the hassle of going over there and running the water, adjusting the heat, keeping vermin out. That house is built like a matchbox. Water comes in the windows when it rains, I had to run over there with towels more than once. The wife takes issue that I take better care of that house than my own, but well. I owe Creek. He’s a good man.”

 

Isaac none too subtly rolled his eyes. It chafed Chris to once again hear Creek described in a positive manner. He understood that abusers were often able to keep respectable public personas while operating as monsters in the privacy of their own home. That didn’t make it easy to hear.

 

“Thank you,” he forced himself to say, “for looking after the house.”

 

But Mayer was looking intently at Isaac. “You have a problem, son?” he asked.

 

“Many,” Isaac said.

 

“Your daddy was a fine man. He served his country, he led hundreds of students to victory on the swim team. That’s no small thing. He helped me out of more than one scrape. I know you two didn’t get along, but that’s no excuse—”

 

“You what?” Isaac asked. Chris was ready to grab his son and escort him out of this house, away from this man, but when he reached for Isaac, he stepped out of range. “What makes you think you we didn’t get along?”

 

Mayer huffed. “I lived next door didn’t I? I heard the shouting, what sounded like you throwing things around. That’s not right, you should respect your father. Especially in death.”

 

Isaac laughed hysterically. “That’s what you heard? That’s what you heard. Well fuck you, Pritchard. Your hearing is not worth shit.”

 

Mayer’s face turned red. “I am your elder, you will respect me.”

 

“Fuck you,” Isaac spat, “You don’t know shit about my father. Just because he helped you change a tire once—who the fuck doesn’t know how to change a tire?—doesn’t make him a good man.”

 

“Watch yourself,” Mayer warned.

 

“That’s enough,” Chris said, too late. He stepped between Isaac and Mayer. “Isaac go to the car. I will be out in a moment.”

 

Isaac sneered at Mayer and let out one last, “Fuck you,” before walking outside.

 

Chris shut the door behind him. He stepped close to Mayer, getting in his space and forcing him to step back against a wall. Chris stepped even closer to him, making his threat clear.

 

“You know nothing about that man,” he said quietly, “And you know nothing about Isaac. How dare you speak as though you understand him? He is worth more than you ever will be. How dare you blame a child for—“ he cut himself off, aware of his hands fisting and raising, more out of tension than to threaten Mayer. But by the way Mayer’s eyes widened, he knew it was read as a threat. He didn’t much mind.

 

“Don’t you dare,” he continued, “Speak to Isaac again. And end this ridiculous belief that _he_ was the problem.”

 

“Are you saying—“ Mayer started, but Chris cut him off with a motion of his hand.

 

“Does Aileen owe you any money?”

 

Mayer shook his head.

 

“Then we are done. You will hand me your keys to the house, and you will not enter it ever again. I don’t want to hear that Isaac’s name was on your lips, or that you are furthering this ridiculous story of yours. Understood?”

 

Mayer nodded and hurriedly took two keys off his keychain and thrust them at Chris. Chris took the keys and left without a word, slamming the door shut behind him.

 

If possible the snow was falling even more heavily, and Chris struggled to see more than a few feet in front of him as he looked for Isaac. He went to the car expecting to find Isaac in the front seat, in god knows what state. Instead, he found the car empty. He looked around for Isaac, reaching for his cell phone to call him, but his gaze stopped on the Lahey house. On a hunch, he walked towards it.

 

There were footsteps in the snow leading to the open front door.

 

Isaac was inside.

 

Chris ran into the house.

 

The lights in the hallway were on. On pure instinct, he went into the kitchen and found the basement door unchained and open. He took a deep breath. He didn’t know what was waiting for him downstairs, but he knew his son was down there and was no doubt in pain so he carefully walked down the basement steps.

 

They were rickety and narrow. The kind of steps someone could easily fall on and shatter an elbow. Especially if they were being forced.

 

The basement was dark, lit only by the reflection of the snow on the high windows along a back wall. As he descended he saw Isaac, standing in front of what looked like a chest freezer. He was skimming one hand on top of it, staring down blankly.

 

Chris looked down too and his heart stopped.

 

There were holes drilled in the lid of the freezer.

 

Air holes.

 

Isaac’s claustrophobia. His refusal to ride in an elevator, his exiting the car during gridlocked traffic on the expressway, his screaming every night _Let me out let me out let me out._

 

Chris felt his vision blur with tears, and he couldn’t help but gasp when he saw Isaac’s other hand on a padlock holding the freezer shut.

 

No.

 

This couldn’t have happened to his son.

 

It was too terrible—it was a horrendous crime. A monstrous thing to do to a child. Beyond imagining. Yet Chris immediately knew what has happened and it made terrible, terrible sense.

 

“Isaac,” he said, his voice strained beyond measure.

 

He was beyond working out how to be the best possible father or respond correctly. He was operating purely on instinct.

 

Isaac didn’t look at him. He continued touching the lid of the freezer and staring blankly down. Chris knew it would be a bad idea to touch Isaac right now so instead, he did what he did when Isaac was having a nightmare. He found a single hanging light bulb and turned it on.

 

At first, it seemed to have no effect. But slowly, Chris saw Isaac blink and breathe a little more deeply. After a few minutes, he turned to Chris and flinched.

 

“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice impossibly young.

 

“I’m here to take you home,” Chris said.

 

“You can’t be here. My dad is going to find you. He’s going to kill you.”

 

Chris closed his eyes. He remembered saying similar words to a teacher who showed too much interest in his wellbeing when he was young. His father was a terrifying force and any potential rescuer was only putting themselves in danger. Chris had to imagine it was the same for Isaac.

 

He opened his eyes. “Your father cannot kill me.”

 

“Yes, he can!” Isaac cried. “You need to leave. You need to get out of here, he’s going to find us and he’s going to—he’s going to—“

 

Then Chris risked it all. He stepped forward and pulled Isaac into his arms. He expected Isaac to fight, and he would have let go if he did, but instead, Isaac collapsed into his arms, putting his head on Chris’ shoulder and he wasn’t surprised to feel wetness seep into his shirt.

 

“I thought he was going to kill me,” Isaac cried, “I was so scared. I was scared to even move in case it was wrong. He should have killed me.”

 

Chris stroked the back of his head. Why hadn’t he been doing this after Isaac’s nightmares all along? He was his father now, it wasn’t wrong to comfort him.

 

“He should not have,” Chris said, “You were meant to survive. You were meant to come to us.”

 

“I don’t think I survived,” Isaac said.

 

“You did,” Chris said. “You never have to come here again. This is over, do you understand? It’s not going to happen again. Your father is dead. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

 

Isaac gripped the back of Chris’ shirt and wiped his eyes on his shoulder. He lifted his head. “Do you hate me now?”

 

Chris felt tears well again. “Why would I hate you?”

 

“Now that you saw,” Isaac said simply.

 

He understood to Isaac’s mind he was seeing his greatest sin, evidence that he was a bad kid who deserved to be punished in a heinous way. Chris shook his head. “This should not have happened to you. He should not have done this to you. You deserved better.”

 

“That’s not true,” Isaac said, still gripping Chris’ shirt but wiping his eyes with a free hand. “There had to be something wrong with me. He didn’t hurt Camden. It was just me. There’s something wrong with me.”

 

“There was something wrong with _him,”_ Chris insisted. “We don’t know why, and there is no excuse but your father had something terribly wrong with him. He should not have hurt you. You don’t have to believe me today or soon, but I hope you do in time.”

 

Isaac took a deep breath. “Can we leave?” he asked.

 

For the second time in as many days, Chris nodded and said, “Yes. Of course.”

 

He got Isaac to the car. The snow was whiting out their vision further than a few feet, and he kept a hand on Isaac’s elbow until he was in the passenger seat. “I’m going to go back and make sure everything is locked up. We are not coming back here again.”

 

Isaac looked at him with fear. “You’re coming back?” he asked, sounding unsure.

 

“I’m coming back,” Chris assured him. “I want to make sure the heat is on, and everything is in order so we don’t have to come back. Is that alright?”

 

Isaac nodded tightly. “Just come back, okay?”

 

“I will,” Chris promised. He went to the driver's side and pulled in his iPod which was loaded with recordings of Isaac’s favorite radio show. “Listen to this, alright? I will be back soon.”

 

He went inside. He did check the heat and the windows but his true target was the room filled with Creek’s collection on the second floor. The inane collection that his single-minded obsessiveness led to him neglecting his son. He saw the way Isaac looked at the rifles in the back of the room. He knew immediately where Isaac’s distaste for weapons came from. He was furious about it.

 

The room was lined with glass cases filled with small artifacts. Chris applied pressure to the side of one and was satisfied when it fell to the floor with a tremendous crash, shattering the glass and sending the artifacts inside flying around the room. He continued the action with each glass case, watching buttons and spittoons fly around the room, taking comfort in the feeling of glass crunching under his feet. His last target was the replica rifles. Those he disassembled quickly, with skills his father had taught him, taking them apart piece by piece until they were nothing but warped component parts. He scattered the pieces across the room, adding to the chaos of the once meticulously curated collection. He hoped Creek Lahey was looking up at him and writhing in agony over his precious collection being destroyed. It wasn’t enough, but it was all Chris could do for the moment.

 

He went back to the car and wasn’t surprised to find Isaac slumped against the window, sound asleep. He quietly got in the car and turned off the radio recording. He turned on the windshield wipers and started the journey back to the motel, the first leg of their trip home.

 


	4. Chapter 4

It became quickly clear that Chris was not driving back to Chicago today. The visibility was so bad that he was driving less than 20 miles an hour as he left the residential area that the Lahey house was in. His tires, designed to be impervious to snow, slid dangerously on the road. When it came up, he turned into the gas station with the intent of buying more food. He had MREs in his emergency kit in the trunk, but if he had another option he would just as soon not go there. The taste of some of them still made him sick to his stomach.

 

Isaac stirred when he felt the car stop. “What?” he asked widely.

 

“We are stopping at the gas station for some food,” Chris explained, “I am out of view of the windows, and you can stay in the car if you do not want to see that young man again. But we need food.”

 

Isaac shook his head. “Aren’t we going home?”

 

“Not in this storm,” Chris said, “We need to wait for it to pass. We will go back to the motel and read or watch television until it does.”

 

Isaac groaned like a child. “I want to go home.”

 

“I do too,” Chris said. He could not get out of this town soon enough. But he was not willing to let emotional needs risk the physical safety of his child. He went into the gas station and bought another pizza, as well as some microwave meals and water bottles. He bought bags of beef jerky and granola bars and ignored the rude look the boy that Isaac was avoiding gave him as he checked out.

 

“You know the general store is cheaper than us, right?” he sneered.

 

What a rude child. “Just ring me up, please,” Chris said, making it clear that it was not a request.

 

“You’re the guy that’s here with Isaac, right?” the kid asked as he overfilled plastic bags with Chris’ items. “The gun guy?”

 

Chris didn’t freeze, his eyes didn’t widen. He refused to be surprised by the gossip in this town. He was a stranger in a small town, he could not be surprised that this boy figured out who he was. He wondered who he was to Isaac. A friend? A bully? A target? He knew very little about Isaac’s social life previous to coming to Briarwood, but based on the way he operated at home, he imagined he had few or no friends.

 

Invisibly gathering himself, Chris said, “Is this a necessary part of this transaction?”

 

“Wow,” the kid said, “You’re kind of a dick, huh? Well, that tracks.”

 

Chris fixed him with a cold stare and swiped his card. He walked away with his products, hoping that he hadn’t just made the rumors worse.

 

Back at the motel he called Mary and requested another night. He could practically hear her draw in the gossip as he spoke. “Because of the weather,” he explained, hoping it would abate some rumors.

 

“Oh sure honey, take your time. I won’t even charge you for another night, how’s that?”

 

“That’s unnecessary,” Chris said, “We will pay for another night.”

 

Isaac looked up from his phone. Chris waved to him, hoping to indicate that they weren’t going to spend the night here if he had any say about it.

 

“Well alright, if you insist,” Mary said, “I’ll come check on you in the morning. You’re my only guests. I’ll bring you some muffins.”

 

“Thank you, but we will be fine.”

 

“There’s nothing wrong with accepting help, Mr. Argent,” Mary admonished.

 

Exhausted, Chris thanked her and hung up. Isaac was staring at him.

 

“I don’t want to stay here,” he said.

 

“I know,” Chris said, “It’s just a matter of the weather. If we can avoid it, we will drive home.”

 

“You’re supposed to be able to handle anything, why can’t you drive home in this?”

 

Chris smiled sadly. He had noticed that even at eighteen Isaac had a opaque view of him that Allison had shaken off years ago. “I can’t handle anything,” he admitted, “Some things are beyond me. Driving in a blizzard is dangerous and I’m not willing to risk your health.”

 

Isaac sighed. “Can I go to sleep? I’m really tired.”

 

“Yes of course,” Chris said, “I’ll read my book.”

 

“I’m going to set an alarm,” Isaac decided, “If I don’t sleep long enough, I won’t dream.”

 

“Good idea,” Chris said. He hoped it would work.

 

* * *

 

 

It didn’t work.

 

It started with whimpering. Chris usually didn’t hear Isaac until he was screaming, but this time he could stop it before it got to that point. Isaac was tossing and turning on the bed, and by the time Chris got up to his desk and was standing over him, he was saying, “ _No no no no no please no”_

How many times could Chris witness his child in this state before he fell apart?

 

He crouched down next to the bed and shook his shoulder. “Isaac,” he said firmly.

 

Isaac’s fist shot out and connect with Chris’s face. Stunned, he fell back on the floor with a thud. He ignored the pain in his face and went back to trying to wake his son up.

 

“Isaac,” he said firmly, not touching him this time. Isaac startled awake. He looked around the room wildly, like he always did, looking for his father, Chris guessed. Part of him was relieved to have some notion of the content of Isaac’s dreams now. The rest of him didn’t want the responsibility of knowledge of such an awful thing. But he was a father, and it was his job to bear the burdens of his child.

 

“I’m sorry,” Isaac said, once he established that there was no danger in the room. “I’m so sorry.”

 

“Isaac, it's alright,” Chris said. “You—”

 

“Never have to apologize, I know,” Isaac groaned and rubbed his face. “Could you just like, back up for a minute? I’m sorry.”

 

Chris sat back on his made bed. For a few minutes Isaac leaned back in bed and rubbed his face. Then suddenly he sat up straight.

 

“Did I hit you? I dreamed I hit him right before I woke up.”

 

The pain in his face came throbbing back, and Chris fought to ignore it. “It’s alright,” he said.

 

Isaac groaned and put his face in his hands. “It’s not alright. God, I’m so fucked up. Do you even want to be my dad anymore?”

 

Chris leaned forward. “Isaac, I was your dad before the adoption and I will be your dad until I die. After that, even. I will always want to be your dad. I love you.”

 

“I literally just hit you, you can’t still want me.”

 

“I do,” Chris said, “I would prefer that not happen when you are in control, but you were not, and I still want to be your dad.”

 

“It doesn’t make sense,” Isaac said into his hands. “I should be better. Shouldn’t I? I mean. You adopted me. I have evidence that someone can love me, and it wasn’t all my fault. Right? I should be doing better. I’ve just gotten worse.”

 

Chris sighed. He knew he could give blanket comfort. Continue to assure Isaac that he loved him no matter what. He could tell him that what he was experiencing was understandable. Or he could provide context, normalize his experience the only way he knew how.

 

His hands shook and he fought the urge to form them into fists. That would not help. Still.

 

He was scared.

 

But he proceeded.

 

“I didn’t start having nightmares until I left my father’s home,” he said evenly. His voice betrayed nothing. “They didn’t start until I felt safe.” Isaac looked up at him in surprise, but before he could say anything Chris went on, “What you are experiencing—there’s precedent.”

 

Isaac wiped his eyes. “You didn’t feel safe until you left?” he asked.

 

“I wasn’t safe,” Chris said.

 

He fought hard in his mind not to compare his experiences with Isaac’s. Victoria would tell him not to. She would tell him that there was no comparing, what mattered was how he lived, what he did with his life. And what he had done was father two children who were kind, loyal and smart. He felt no ownership of his arms business, it could go down in flames tomorrow and he would not be nearly as bothered as he was by the knowledge that his son was in pain and there was little he could do to stop it.

 

He hoped that his words assuaged it in some way.

 

“Oh,” Isaac said quietly.

 

“Yes,” Chris said. He knew Isaac understand what he wasn’t saying. What he couldn’t say. Had only ever said to Victoria. That he knew what is was to be afraid to move, afraid to speak when any action could be deemed worthy of punishment.

 

“Why are you paying for his nursing home, then?” Isaac asked, anger coloring his voice, “You should just let him die.”

 

“Obligation, I suppose,” Chris said. He never considered another option besides paying for Gerard’s end of life care. “It’s not in my nature to allow people to die.”

 

“Would you have let my dad die?” he asked.

 

 _Yes,_ Chris thought. If he knew what he knew now, and saw Creek Lahey after he’d been fatally struck by a car, he would not attempt to save his life for a moment. He wouldn’t even look at the plates of the car that killed him in a hit and run. He would take Isaac away from another trauma and leave Creek Lahey to die.

 

He didn’t know which answer Isaac was looking for so he deflected. “I have not been a position to do so,” he said, “But I am dedicated to your wellbeing. That is most important to me.”

 

Isaac waved the words away, and with some amusement Chris wondered if the novelty of hearing such things had worn off already. “Okay, I get it,” he said, “But like—I don’t know. You can let your dad die.”

 

“It’s not up to me to meter out revenge for what my father did to me,” Chris said, “Have you ever heard the saying, ‘The best revenge is living well?’’ If it was possible, Isaac’s eyes would have rolled out of his head. Chris smiled. “Yes, cliché, I know. But it does give me some comfort. I have two children who I believe do not fear me, and a business built on relationships rather than blackmail. My father may view these things as failure, but I believe I am succeeding.”

 

“We don’t,” Isaac says earnestly, “Like, at all. You’re the best person I know.”

 

Isaac must not know enough people. Chris knew he was not as good a person as Isaac believed him to be, but the compliment still brought warmth to his cheeks. “Well,” he said, “I believe that you are getting revenge in your own way.”

 

Isaac shook his head but then stopped. “My dad said no one would ever love me.”

 

It was like a blow to the face, more painful than the misplaced strike he’d experienced moments before.

 

“And do you now know that’s not true?” he asked, forcing himself past is personal pain. 

 

Isaac nodded. “You love me. And Allison loves me. Even Erica—even _Derek_ in his weird way.”

 

“We do,” Chris said, “We all love you. And that’s not changing.”

 

Isaac nodded. “When did you stop having nightmares?” he asked.

 

He wanted to lie to Isaac but he couldn’t. “They never fully stopped,” he said. “They have slowed for months at a time, even years. But during times of stress or transition, or even great joy, they seem to come back.”

 

“Like what, when Allison was born?”

 

“Yes, that was one of the worse periods. I was afraid I was unfit to be a father.”

 

Isaac raised his eyebrows. “You like, the most qualified father in the world.”

 

“Well I’m sure that’s not true, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

 

“Do you think that means my nightmares won’t go away? I never had them before, not even when my mom died.”

 

“I don’t know,” Chris said honestly, “What’s true for me isn’t necessarily true for you. It might be that a professional could give you a better answer.”

 

Isaac was silent, considering. “Whatever,” he said, “I just want one night without nightmares.”

 

“It will happen,” Chris promised, “I don’t know when, but it will.”

 

“Okay,” Isaac said, “Thanks. Can we watch TV now?”

 

Chris nearly sighed, he could do with a break from this conversation as well. “Yes,” he said, “Let’s see if that Psych show is on again.”

 

* * *

 

 

The snow didn’t slow. The local news was very dramatic about the weather and Isaac remarked, “It’s like they all just moved to the Midwest or something.” They shared an order from the governor to stay put and seek shelter until the storm abated. Morning at the latest.

 

Isaac groaned. “I don’t want to stay here.”

 

Chris nodded. “Neither do I,” he said. “We will have to make the best of it.”

 

“What if I don’t want to make the best of it?”

 

“Then I would not be surprised by an out of character attitude from you.”

 

Isaac laughed. “Good joke.”

 

“Thank you,” Chris said, “I have been known to make them on occasion.”

 

They ate microwave ravioli for dinner—not as bad as expected. Isaac sat cross-legged on his bed with headphones on and read until past midnight. Chris—who had not napped—was exhausted but stayed up as long as he could. Finally, at 1 AM, he gestured to get Isaac’s attention until he pulled his headphones off.

 

“We need to sleep,” he said.

 

“I don’t want to sleep.”

 

Chris could sleep with lights on, he had slept through worse conditions before, but he did not want to, even for the comfort of his own son. “Isaac, I do not want to sleep with lights on. If you want, you can listen to your show all night and stay awake, or even watch TV with the volume on low, but I need to sleep.”

 

Isaac looked sheepish. “Whatever,” he said, “I’ll go to sleep.”

 

“Those other options are open to you.”

 

“I’m tired,” he said, “I’ll go to sleep. Just don’t be mad if I wake you up.”

 

“You know I won’t be.”

 

“I know.”

 

* * *

 

 

Isaac didn’t wake him up. Chris jolted awake at 6 AM and found Isaac in the bed across from him, sleeping with one arm over the side of the bed.

 

He hadn’t woken up screaming in the night.

 

For the first night in three weeks they both slept through the night.

 

Chris didn’t dream either.

 

He quietly got out of bed and silently walked to the door of their motel room. He carefully opened the door, revealing a thick foot of snow holding it’s shape in front of the door. His car was buried in snow, but it had stopped falling. His tires were meant to hold up in this weather. They could leave once Isaac woke up.

 

He didn’t want to wake Isaac. He wanted to let him sleep peacefully for as long as possible.

He read the news on this phone, reread Allison’s latest email and his response. It had been a few days since he sent his response, so he composed and sent a second email with base level updates. He put more detail into describing the route to an art museum he wanted her to visit while she was in Paris. At around nine he heard stirring coming from Isaac’s bed. He froze, expecting whimpering or sleep talking to begin, but instead, Isaac sighed and groped for the light. It took a moment, but he turned it on and sat up in bed.

 

He looked at the clock which was still blinking 12:00. “What time is it?” he asked.

 

“Nine oh five,” Chris said. “Once you are ready to leave, we will drive home.”

 

Isaac woke up more and his face brightened. “Really?” he asked.

 

“Really,” Chris confirmed. “We are leaving.”

 

Just as Isaac got out of bed there was an abrupt knock at the hotel door. Mary, probably, coming with her promised muffins. Chris got up and looked in the peephole. He stepped back and turned to Isaac.

 

“It’s that boy from the Casey’s,” he said. “Would you like me to get rid of him?”

 

“Matt?” Isaac asked with disbelief. “Seriously?”

 

“That seems to be the case.”

 

Isaac pulled a sweater on and stood up. “No,” he said, “Don’t let him in. But don’t get rid of him.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“I can handle this,” Isaac said.

 

He got up and walked past Chris to open the door. Chris positioned himself so he was fully visible behind Isaac.

 

“Hi Matt,” he said evenly. “What’s up?”

 

Matt appeared to have been turning away from the door, but he turned back with wide eyes. “Yo,” he said, “So it’s true. You’re here.”

 

“Not for long,” Isaac said, “What do you want?”

 

Matt looked at Chris and gave him a half smile. He looked back at Isaac. “I just wanted to see how you are,” he said.

 

Chris couldn’t see Isaac’s face from where he was standing, but he could almost feel the look of disbelief he was giving Matt. Matt held up his hands. “Honest, okay? I head you were running around with this di—dude who sells _guns_ and I got concerned. Can you blame me?”

 

“He’s my dad,” Isaac said. “He adopted me. I’m fine.”

 

Chris felt pride swell into his chest. He didn’t realize how much he would relish Isaac referring to him as his dad until he heard it done to a stranger.

 

“Oh,” Matt said, narrowing his eyes. “Cool, I guess. Good. I just—listen he’s cool right? You’re cool right?” he asked Chris.

 

“I’m cool,” Chris said tonelessly.

 

“Okay cool,” Matt said, “Because the last thing you need is another fucked up dad.”

 

Isaac froze. Chris saw his fingers tighten on the door. He started to speak then cut himself off. “How did—you knew about my dad?”

 

“That he’s a total sociopath? Of course I know. Isaac—don’t you remember?”

 

“Remember what?”

 

Dark fury passed over Matt’s face. “Remember what he did to me? God! Do you seriously not remember?”

 

Chris’ hand came to Isaac’s shoulder, prepared to pull him out of the line of danger if necessary. This young man’s demeanor had shifted quickly, and that made him dangerous. Isaac shrugged him off.

 

“Matt, what are you talking about?”

 

Matt shook his head. “God, that’s fucked up you know? No one believed me—you were _there_ and you don’t remember.”

 

“I don’t remember a lot of things,” Isaac begged. “Like, I don’t remember my mom dying at all. Okay? Please. I’m sorry. What happened?”

 

“Forget it!” Matt snapped. “God, after what I did for you. And you don’t even remember.”

 

“What did you do for me?” Isaac demanded. “Matt, what did you do?”

 

“I’m glad he’s dead,” Matt said darkly, “He deserved to die. I feel better, don’t you?”

 

“No,” Isaac said, “My dad is dead. I’m still fucked up from everything he did to me. Matt, just tell me.”

 

Matt held up his hands. “Forget it. I’m out. You’re obviously fine, you moved on with your life. Good for you.”

 

“I did,” Isaac said, “I’m done with this town. Matt, maybe you should leave too.”

 

Matt snorted. “And leave my rewarding job at Casey’s? Forget it. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay, and you obviously are. I’m out.”

 

“I am okay,” Isaac said, “I’m fine.”

 

Matt nodded tightly. “Good,” he said, “That’s what I wanted.”

 

Then he was gone, walking away with his boots crunching in the snow. Chris knew with dark certainty what this boy had done. Isaac turned back to him, and Chris knew from the look on his face that he knew too.

 

“He didn’t say anything definite,” he said, “We don’t have to do anything, do we?”

 

“Would you like to do something?” Chris asked.

 

Isaac looked out the open door to Matt disappearing into a car and driving off. “There’s nothing we can do, is there? If we went to the police they’d just laugh at us. We have nothing.”

 

Chris knew he was right. “I don’t want this to be a burden for you,” he said.

 

“It’s not,” Isaac said, “I don’t feel guilty, at all.”

 

Chris doubted this was true, but he did not know how to proceed. There was no precedent for this. “You tell me if that changes,” he said, “And we will figure out what to do.”

 

Isaac nodded. He slowly closed the door. “I don’t remember what he’s talking about. That seems like something I should remember, right?”

 

Chris didn’t know what was normal. He remembered his childhood with crystal clarity whether he wanted to or not. Not for the first time, he wished he had taken more non-business classes in college, and could offer some wisdom to his children. “I don’t know,” Chris admitted, “Again, perhaps we could look into you talking to a professional when we get home? To get some perspective.”

 

Isaac didn’t respond. He closed the door and started packing up his things into his bag. Chris followed suit. It was when they were loading up the car that Isaac stopped before buckling his seatbelt and turned to Chris, “I want to go back to the house,” he said.

 

That was not what Chris expected to hear. “Isaac, you don’t have to—“

 

“I want to,” Isaac said, “If I’m never coming back. I don’t have anything—I don’t have any pictures of my _mom._ I have pictures of Camden on Facebook, and my dad—I don’t give a shit. But it’s fucked up that I don’t have a single picture of my mom. All I have is this—this is fucking weird but I have a jar of lotion that’s fucking empty and doesn’t even smell like anything anymore. I want something normal. I want to look around and see if I can find something.”

 

Chris had noticed that there wasn’t a single family photo anywhere in the Lahey house. He doubted they would find anything, but at the same time, he didn’t want to deny Isaac what was clearly an attempt at closure.

 

“If you don’t find anything—” he started.

 

“I won’t be upset,” Isaac said. “It’ll be the same as I am now, so whatever.”

 

“Would you like to talk more about what just happened with Matt?” he asked.

 

Isaac shook his head. “We can do that later,” he said, “I want to get out of here, but I want to go to the house first. Can we go?”

 

“We can go.”

 

* * *

 

 

Isaac started in the living room, pulling apart drawers and throwing piles of paper on the floor. His caution at disturbing the house was gone, and he left a mess in his wake. He overturned a side table drawer and came up with a stack of newspapers.

 

“My dad’s narcissism drawer,” Isaac joked, “Every write-up about the swim team in the past twenty years. God, what a loser.”

 

Chris agreed.

 

He moved on to his father’s bedroom. Chris noticed that he hesitated to enter two days ago, but today he roved into the room and crouched in front of the dresser and started pulling drawers open. He threw clothes on the floor and swiped his hands on the bottom of the drawers. When he got to the top drawer he went through the same motion and stopped. He crouched down and looked at the underside of the drawer and his eyes widened. He carefully extracted a photo that was taped to the underside of the drawer. With it in his hands, he stepped back and sat on the bed.

 

Chris stepped into the room. He could see from a few feet away that it was a photo of a woman with light curly hair and a wide smile, standing behind what was clearly Isaac sitting in front of a birthday cake, with an older boy standing next to him. Isaac was looking up at the boy. Chris had never seen a photo of Isaac as a child, and he was struck by deep hot envy for the people who had raised him. Who got to see Isaac move through learning to walk, his first day of school his first lost tooth. He was grateful for the time he had with is son, but looking at the photo he mourned what he had missed. 

 

“This was them,” Isaac said quietly. “I didn’t—I don’t even remember what my mom looked like, really. But this was her. This is what she looked like.”

 

“You look like her,” Chris said. 

 

Isaac nodded. “Everyone says I look like my dad. But I look like her, don’t I?”

 

“You do.”

 

Isaac sat on the bed for a few more minutes, cradling the photo in his hands. He sighed then looked around the room. “Should I clean up?”

 

“Do you want to?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“You don’t have to,” Chris said.

 

“Okay,” he said. “Time to leave?”

 

“Time to leave.”

 

* * *

 

 

It took nearly seven hours to drive from Hodge, Indiana, to their apartment north of Chicago. Isaac asked to drive, but Chris gently shook him off, uncomfortable with Isaac’s risky method of driving in this weather. Instead, Isaac napped and listened to his radio show, at times taking the new photo out of his backpack and looking at it.

 

“So are we hiring someone to clean out the house?” he asked.

 

“Are you alright with that?” Chris asked.

 

Isaac shrugged. “I feel bad I made a mess, but I guess so. Just—someone you trust okay? I don’t want a total stranger going through my house.”

 

Chris thought of the trashed room on the second floor with broken glass and disassembled rifles. He was only sending someone he trusted into that house. Someone with discretion.

 

“Someone I trust,” Chris agreed, “We will take care of it. You don’t have to go back.”

 

“I’m never going back,” Isaac said, “I’m done.”

 

* * *

  

Back at the apartment, Isaac dropped his backpack and skates on the ground outside the door and made a beeline for the kitchen. Chris kept his bag with him as he followed Isaac into the kitchen, just in time to see him take out a flour sifter and the mixing bowl.

 

“I’m making muffins,” he said, “I need something that’s not gas station food.”

 

Chris smiled. “I don’t suppose you want takeout?” he asked.

 

“Oh no, Chris,” Isaac said, “You can’t get takeout in Hodge. I totally want takeout.”

 

Chris nodded. “We’ve had a hard couple days, I would say Thai food would not be remiss.”

 

The food came as Isaac was putting the first round of lemon poppy seed muffins in the oven. They sat down in the living room with their dishes and Chris watched as Isaac scrolled through the TV until landing on a show he approved of.

 

“Thanks,” Isaac said, eyes on the TV, “You know. For everything.”

 

“You don’t have to thank me,” Chris said, “I’m your father. This is my job.”

 

“I know,” Isaac said.

 

Chris had been Isaac’s father for three weeks. He felt for the first time that he was doing something right, that he had eased some burden on his son’s mind. He felt as close to at peace as he ever did. He felt right.

 

And he believed Isaac did too.


End file.
